Night Scents (40 page)

Piper. If he was too late, if he lost her—

He couldn't finish the thought.

He and Sally ducked under the low branches of an oak into a small clearing of soft, high grass, golden in the evening sun.

On the far edge of the clearing, in front of a stout, lone hemlock, stood Paul Shepherd. Piper was on her knees next to him, at a strategic angle for the shovel he had in his hands.

Piper smiled weakly at Clate. Dirt and sweat smudged her face, an ugly red swelling at the corner of her eye, in the same place the bastard had hit his wife. Clate could feel himself going rigid, reaching deep into his soul for control, for calm, for the courage to wait for his moment. There were more cuts, more bruises. On her arms, on her hands. He couldn't see her legs. Blood mixed with dirt on her fingers.

His head cleared. Anger pushed back his nausea, his fatigue and pain. He noticed a small, unimpressive looking steel-and-wood chest to Shepherd's right. Hannah's treasure. What she'd dreamed about that night eighty years ago had happened. Her memory of when she was a little girl drawn to her window by the wind, the scents of the night, was real.

"Oh, Paul." Sally's voice was barely audible. She choked back tears and stood back from Clate, away from her husband. "Stop now,
please,
before you do anything else. The police are on their way. You can't possibly—"

"Get away. Both of you." He croaked out the words, his grip tightening visibly on the shovel. Desperation showed in his wild eyes, his trembling lip. "I can crush her head with one swipe. That's all it'll take."

Sally sucked in a small, strangled breath. "
Why,
Paul? What can you possibly hope to gain?"

"Shut up!"

Clate eased forward. He was acutely aware of his surroundings —sounds, smells, the slightest stir of the breeze. Yet all his energy was focused on the man in front of him. Everything depended on the choice he made now. Everything. He couldn't look at Piper. If he did, Shepherd would know just what was at stake.

"You're not going to hit anybody," Clate said in a steady, calm voice. "You don't have enough time to get the arc you need to bash her head in. I'd be on you before the shovel came down."

His eyes flashed. "You want to risk it?" He waved the shovel. "Go on, both of you. Get out of here. I just want the treasure. Right now, it's all I've got left. When I have it and I'm free, I'll let her go."

Sally stifled a sob, and Clate eased another half step forward. Shepherd had a good angle on Piper's head. If Clate was a second off, she would be severely hurt, if not dead. His gaze descended to hers, just for an instant.

A flicker of pure, little-sister, in-your-face nerve.

Hell, Clate thought, and lunged forward just as Piper went for Shepherd, elbowing him hard on his shin. He yowled, and Clate plowed into his shoulders with both hands, sending him sprawling backward into his treasure hole. The shovel smacked Clate's chest, and he caught it before it could hit on the ground. Shepherd had landed badly, his head and shoulders and most of his torso in the hole, his legs half out. He wasn't stupid. He realized what had happened, and he started to sob miserably. Sally hung back, unable to go to him, her misery etched in her plain face as she fought for self-control.

Piper scrambled to her feet. "What took you so long? You should have just hit him and been done with it. The damned arc he needs to bash my head in. What kind of talk is that? Geez, I'm on my knees, half dead already after digging that damned hole, and you two are discussing
my goddamned life!"

"You were scared," Clate said patiently.

"Damned right I was scared!"

"So was I."

Her mouth snapped shut. She stared at him. Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed at them with her dirty, bloody fingers. He held his shovel with one hand and scooped his free arm around her. She felt so good. She was all hot and sweaty, and when he looked at her bruises and cuts, he had to fight not to hit Shepherd over the head with his shovel.

She blinked back more tears. "Hannah's treasure. It's real."

But before they could deal with treasure, they had to deal with the Macintosh men and most of the police department of Frye's Cove, Massachusetts, who arrived in force, dispatched into the woods by Hannah herself. Paul Shepherd acted as if he were the victim, as if anyone in his position—with such a stupid wife, with such provocation as he'd endured—would have done exactly what he'd done. Then he shut up and refused to speak to anyone but his lawyer.

Sally didn't speak to anyone, just walked silently with Robert Macintosh back to the house that had been in her family for over two hundred years. Whatever demons she was fighting, she'd fight alone. By her own choice. Instead of sharing her grandfather's deathbed confession with the woman he'd married and tried to make amends for what he'd done, she'd kept it to herself.

Hannah was waiting on the terrace, gazing patiently out at the view that had been hers for so many years. With Ernie's permission, her nephew Robert had carried his grandfather's chest up from the woods. He set it in front of the Adirondack chair where his aunt sat.

Hannah turned to Sally Shepherd. "Jason didn't ask you to move it, did he?"

She shook her head. She hadn't cried since that first sob at seeing her husband with Piper, Clate noted. Whether it was shock or that Yankee stiff upper lip, he didn't know. She said, "After what he'd done, he couldn't bring himself to look inside the chest. He just buried it. He wanted me—he wanted me to do the right thing. He said he'd done what he could, but he was never able to bring himself to tell anyone the truth. Except me. He could have died with the truth. He could have spared me." She inhaled, struggling to hang onto her self-control. "But he didn't."

Hannah reached out a hand, but Sally didn't take it.

"He never asked me to forgive him," she went on. "The one he should have asked was you, Hannah. But he knew you'd never forgive him, and so he never asked."

"No." Hannah spoke calmly, confidently. "He knew I
would
forgive him, and so he never asked for my forgiveness. His was a foolish, impulsive, terrible mistake that led to the deaths of two people. He never intended anything bad to come of that night. When it did, he couldn't face what he'd done. He didn't want forgiveness, Sally. He wanted to live with his guilt. Perhaps he deserved to live with it."

"Then why tell me what he'd done?"

"So you could know. So you could look at reality for what it is, and accept the truth about him."

Piper sighed, impatient, fidgety, her energy all but spent. "Hannah, don't you want to know what's inside?"

"I was wondering how long you could stand it," Hannah said, a sudden, unexpected twinkle in her eye. Her niece had that effect on her, Clate realized.

With her family looking on, Hannah leaned over and tried the latches. "They're stuck. Andrew, would you mind?"

Obviously glad to have something physical to do, Andrew worked the latches free, then stood back. "Hannah, if you want to do this alone—"

"Alone?" She stared at him, mystified. "No, I don't want to do this alone. I was alone that night, when the Fryes broke the news of my parents' death, when I saw the man I was later to marry out here, only to forget for eighty years." She shook her head. "Caleb and Phoebe Macintosh were your great-grandparents. They'd want you here, and so do I. Now, lift the lid, will you?"

He complied, and Hannah's expression immediately changed. Her eyes widened, and she gave a small gasp of delight. "Oh,
look!"

Clate couldn't see inside the small chest. Hannah reached in, as excited as a seven-year-old, and withdrew something wrapped in oilcloth, presumably to protect it at sea. Two tiny, booted feet poked out the bottom. Hannah unwrapped it, and for a moment, she was the little girl she was meant to have been eighty years ago, welcoming her parents home.

A porcelain doll smiled up at her. It was a princess, decked out in Czarist Russian garb.

"She comes with her own little Faberge egg," Hannah said, rushing her words, ignoring the faded, tattered condition of the doll, "and, oh, look, a little velvet bag of gems. Oh, this is wonderful. Wonderful!"

Benjamin Macintosh took a breath and held it, tears not far off. Andrew paced, unable to watch. Their father cried openly, as did Liddy.

Piper sat on the arm of her aunt's chair and pointed out the doll's authentic buttons, how the porcelain had survived eighty years of being buried, and the clothes, although rotted, could have been in so much worse condition, but not to worry, they could stitch up some new ones.

She touched Hannah's shoulder. "Look, Hannah. There's more."

Her old aunt reached into the chest again, producing a small, waterproof pouch. "You open it, Piper. My hands are shaking."

"Mine are dirty."

"Phooey. Open it."

Taking the pouch on her lap, Piper reached carefully inside. "There's a note."

"I don't have my reading glasses," Hannah said. "Read it."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to intrude."

Clate smiled. Of course she did. He could see that same knowledge in every pair of eyes on the terrace. At eighty-seven, Piper Macintosh would probably be every bit as nosy and meddlesome as her great-aunt.

"Oh, read it, for heaven's sake."

Obviously excited, Piper opened up the yellowed envelope and withdrew a folded sheet of notepaper. "Some of the lettering's faded." She caught her breath. "It's from your father. 'Dearest Hannah, I hope you enjoy Anna, the Russian princess I rescued while I was in Europe. You're a darling daughter. Thank you for waiting so long for me. Love, Father.'"

The terrace fell silent. Even Clate, who until a short time ago had never known any of these people, felt the tenderness and loneliness of a father and daughter stretch across the decades.

Hannah sat quietly, not bothering to blink back the tears.

"There's more," Piper said quietly. She dipped into the pouch and produced a small box, with a tiny card on top. "It says, 'My sweet Hannah, I love you, Mama.' You want to open it, Hannah?"

She shook her head. "You."

Piper complied, and inside the box were four tiny glass vials. "Lavender water, rose water, glycerin, and witch hazel. Oh, Hannah! Your mother knew you were a witch even at seven!"

Chapter 18

Three days after Cape Cod's most celebrated mystery was solved and Hannah Macintosh Frye was reunited with her parents' treasure, Clate headed south.

Piper understood. His refuge on Cape Cod had become a frenzy of activity. Reporters, friends, family, police, the curious. Everyone in Frye's Cove now knew about his relationship with Piper Macintosh and naturally made it their business.

"No wonder it took a spell to get a man up here for you," he'd said, part in exasperation, part in amusement, finally appreciating the complexities of her romantic life.

The national media had a field day with Hannah Frye and her nineteenth-century dresses and spells and potions and memory of a crime that had occurred eighty years ago. She was in her element. The reporters stayed longer than was necessary because it was Cape Cod and the weather was beautiful, and because they—this Piper could not figure out—liked the tea Hannah served them.

Paul Shepherd refused to talk to anyone. The Macintosh brothers tried to get Ernie to let them have ten minutes alone with him. Ernie, a man of principle in spite of his prejudices against the Macintosh women, declined. Since Tuck had admitted digging once in Clate's yard, that meant Paul was responsible for everything else. Andrew figured out that Shepherd must have poisoned Hannah's water jugs while they were at the inn, before Robert Macintosh had run them out to her. Then, when father and sons rushed off to see Hannah in the hospital, Paul took advantage of the chaos to borrow one of their keys to her townhouse, slip in, and remove the jugs, to prevent them from being tested for poison. Afterward, he resumed whipping Stan Carlucci into a frenzy over Hannah's designs on his digestive system.

Carlucci had apologized to Hannah for jumping to the wrong conclusions about her. They still disagreed on everything, he still didn't appreciate her help with his problem, but he knew the tincture of bistort and agrimony was Paul's doing, not hers.